Stand Well Back

One of the major problems with writing this journal is that there are times when you just have to face the fact that nothing remotely interesting has happened to you, and as a consequence you have fuck-all to write about. This is where your average blogger resorts to pondering such pointless shit as the color of their underwear (why do I always seem to wear blue on Tuesdays?), or filling in with memes and other "filler" material. I, by contrast, decided to have a drink, and as a result I cannot be held responsible for the quality of the shit I disgorge tonight.

Anyway, I went to the gym today hardly expecting to be inspired to write, but as I was sitting on the bench between sets I watched one of the trainers escorting a new girl over for her first supervised session. This might have been a good opportunity for some guidance on basic strength exercises, or cardio, or even how to warm up, but instead I watched as this girl was shown how to lie on a foam roller and roll slightly backwards and forwards. What the fuck is the point of that? I'm sure women come to the gym primarily to lose weight or get in shape, and there's no way you're going to change your body shape one single fucking iota by rolling your arse on a foam cylinder. These gym trainers should come with the following disclaimer:

By signing up for these sessions I hereby accept that nothing I learn will be of any practical use whatsoever. I am of sound mind and therefore fully aware that if I want to look different I'll need to eat less or work out hard, and probably both. I therefore hold my trainer harmless in the event that I pay an exorbitant amount of money for six months and get no benefit whatsoever. I further accept that I am only entering into this agreement to make myself feel better about the chocolate cakes and burgers, and have no actual intention of making any effort. I just want something to make me feel OK about being a fat git.

The only thing that girl in the gym might have learned today, and which the trainer completely failed to point out, was that one of the positions she adopted would be perfect if she ever wanted to set light to a fart. Now this is not something for which most people are prepared but let me assure you that it takes more than a three bean casserole and a box of matches to pull this off. For a start it takes balls - it is theoretically possible to get some sort of blowback and badly singe your anus, so it's a bit like buying a lottery ticket, only with a big downside instead of a wad of cash. On the subject of balls, it's also a good idea to keep these out of the way. (Less of a problem if you're a woman, I admit, which is why I'm surprised that more women don't try to light their farts - they have a natural advantage.)

Once your sack is out of the way you still have to figure out how to apply the match from such an angle that the flame won't burn your fingers or your ring. Your pants can be on or off at this stage. Personally I suggest on - applying naked flame to the underside of your testicles in the pursuit of rectal fireworks is a bigger risk than I'd take. You also have to consider the angle of observation - there's absolutely no point setting light to a fart if you don't get to see the result. It doesn't matter how good your friend/spouse says it looked - if you're going to risk blowing up your colon you want the payoff.

In the end this is a sport of timing and opportunity. The chances are that the best fart will come not at home when you've had a few beers and are considering giving this a try for a bet, but at a formal dinner with your boss, where the sight of you throwing your legs up in the air and applying a Bic lighter to your nether regions is unlikely to position you for that soon-to-be-open Vice President position. You just have to accept that you'll pass this one into the seat cushion as quietly as you can and live to light another day.

For those of you who may think this is low-grade entertainment, may I suggest that it's no worse than eating oysters. For years I have eaten these things knowing that there's a small but real possibility that I'll get a dodgy one and spend a whole day vomiting; against this not-inconsiderable downside I can set the upside of swallowing what seems like a small wad of phlegm. Twelve times, if I ordered a dozen. Compared to this, the calculus of lighting a fart and risking an arse burnback in pursuit of the satisfaction of seeing a flame shoot from yourt own anus seems positively reasonable.

This bloke obviously thought so.

Like I said before, sometimes there just isn't much to write about...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison